Harry Potter, Privet Dick err, Ministry Auror
by XhaLe
Summary: I wanted to become an unspeakable so I could be one of the many things I was going to do to her body. HHr. RR!


Harry Potter, Privet Dick (err, Ministry Auror)  
  
Summary: Schlock and Awe of the pulp fiction/film noir variety. Humor, smut, H/Hr  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Notes: NC-17 version available on portkey.org. Beta snaps to Mimic117.  
  
It had been a long day at the office and I was glad for the opportunity to sit down in my plush leather chair. Being an auror is hard work these days. Since the final defeat of Voldemort, the department had been severely cut back, like a kneazle that had been fixed.  
  
I'd just come back from a grueling case. If you'd tasted the coffee the Ministry bought in bulk, you'd call it gruel, too. We call it the Cuppatasteslikeshit Curse, and it's quite unforgivable. I'd just started the spell to numb my taste buds and had the mug to my lips.  
  
That's when SHE walked in.  
  
I hadn't seen her in years, but I'd kept abreast of her movements through the papers. Hermione Granger had never been a little girl, even when she was a little girl. Now, she was a big girl. She wore a cleavage-revealing summer top beneath her robes. Her tan was evident, and I remembered reading that she'd opened a branch of St. Mungo's recently in Barbados. Her breasts were like coconuts; larger than a handful, firm and covered sparsely with short, soft brown hair.  
  
She smiled faintly at me and took a seat without asking for permission. Forcibly moving my attention from her cleavage to her face, I noticed that the rest of her had also aged well, like a fine wine that still hadn't turned to vinegar.  
  
"So, long time no see, Hermione," I said, opting for the easy opening.  
  
"It's good to see you, Harry," she replied, her smile becoming more pronounced.  
  
"It's good to see you, too. What brought you here? Business or pleasure?" I asked. I prayed to every god and dead wizard I could think of that the latter had brought her, but knew that, like a prison stoolie in the general population my hopes were fucked.  
  
"The Knight Bus," she said, "and it's business, for now."  
  
Call the magistrate. My hopes still had a chance of the court reversing its decision.  
  
"Tell me your story," I said. She did.  
  
Long expository sequence minimized, St. Mungo's was in a bad way and Hermione was up an unsanitary tributary without a means of locomotion. Potions were disappearing, mediwitches' wands vanished while their owners were in the showers, there had been a series of other non-fatal but minorly serious crimes committed, and no one knew where the trouble was coming from. Many mediwitches had quit or gone into private practice and patients were looking for safer alternatives, like an underage wizard who couldn't cast a contraceptive spell and also didn't have the right kind of money for muggle condoms. The entire situation was like a train wreck that hadn't happened yet, except nobody was in mortal danger. Yet.  
  
She'd already talked to my boss, Moody. He told her that since she couldn't prove it was Dark Magic, it was really up to me to decide whether or not to investigate. Quite frankly, the largest wizarding hospital chain was on the verge of Gringottruptcy, and she was well aware that I was their last, best hope.  
  
"Please, Harry, you're our last, best hope," she pleaded, thrusting her chest forward like a pigeon with large, coconut-shaped breasts. "I'll do anything," she finished breathily. Apparently, she couldn't thrust and speak normally at the same time. Brigid's Tits, neither could I.  
  
I took a moment to think things through. Her big doe eyes continued to plead with me, and she kept pushing out her chest. She slipped off her robe and spread it over the desk. I'd have to clean up the spilt coffee later, before it burned a hole through the hardwood floor of the office. Accounting would probably make me pay for it myself this time.  
  
"I'm not sure it's worth it," I said, nodding over to the muggle file cabinet pressed flush against the wall. "You can see my caseload is pretty severe. I'll need to see what you're offering to make a more informed decision."  
  
There was no reason to inform her that those files were my completed cases.  
  
Her smile was a little more tentative than before. Her hand was shaky as it moved up her tight stomach. Between the curves of her pendulous bosom. Under the fabric of her top. I could see her grope around and watched as her bra parted beneath her nimble fingers. Her breasts spread apart bouncily like botuberpus on a cold Scottish morning. She pulled her hand out from the top of her top and slapped it down on the desk.  
  
"This is just a sample," she said saucily.  
  
As she lifted her hand, I saw two rectangular pieces of parchment out of the corner of my eye. The rest of that eye and the entirety of the other one were still staring at her now-unfettered breasts, which jiggled merrily with every motion of her arm.  
  
Dragging my eyes away kicking and screaming, I saw the scraps on my desk were first row tickets to the next Chudley Cannons match against Manchester Untied.  
  
"You'll have to do better than that," I said. "I'm sure Manchester United could beat both the Cannons and the Untied, and they're strictly a Muggle soccer team."  
  
She stood up and circled the small room, perching herself on the edge of my side of the desk. She made sure I had a good expanse of thigh to ogle. "Season passes are the best I can offer." She scooched around on her perch and let her skirt rise a few more scandalous millimeters.  
  
"I told you, we're strapped for galleons at the moment.  
  
"Isn't there something else I could interest you in?"  
  
The first thing I thought of also fell into the realm of strapping, but I'd learned over the years that leaving marks invariably ended in uncomfortable questions (and bottoms).  
  
"Make me an offer." I knew what I wanted and she knew what I wanted, and I could tell by the sparkle in her eye that she knew that I knew that she knew what I knew I wanted. The question was, would she give me what she knew I knew she knew I wanted?  
  
Clearly the answer was yes, even if the question wasn't. Clear, that is; not yes. Clear? Yes.  
  
Applying that greatest of feminine secrets, she removed her bra without taking off her shirt. Balling it up, she tossed it at me, allowing it to fall down between my parted legs. She crisscrossed her hands over her top and pulled it sensuously over her head, then tossed it to the side.  
  
The first thing I noticed was that her breasts were free of tan lines. I had a fleeting notion that transfiguring myself into her suntan lotion would not be the worst way of committing suicide. Transfiguring into Malfoy's suntan lotion probably would be. The second thing I noticed was that the nipples followed the trend of the rest of her breasts. They too were large and sported a sprinkling of hairs of varying lengths.  
  
Her skirt quickly went the way of her bra. Her underwear was plain white cotton, with a little wet spot. She blushed. I had the decency not to point out that I thought she'd gotten over that little problem when we were still first years.  
  
She moved to remove that last bit of cloth but I shook my head and stood. I suddenly realized that she'd never moved from her perch on my desk and I had no clue how she'd gotten her skirt off Ð I think that exceeded even the marvel of the bra removal. I was unable to recreate her miracle and was forced to help her into a standing position.  
  
Pulling her forward I kissed the part of her closest to me. Her skin tasted the same way I take my coffee; sweet, creamy, and with that slight aftertaste that tells me I need to clean the cup a little more often. She kissed me and I clutched her bushy hair, pressing through the coarse hair to the slick, sticky lips hidden within. Our tongues dueled, and I had a fleeting thought that her parents really should have done a better job with that chipped tooth. I pulled my finger from her mouth to give my tongue more room to maneuver. Leaning down I grabbed my wand. The magical one. No, the other magical one. I aimed it at her face.  
  
"Bicuspidus Reparo," I whispered, with the manliest flick and swish I could muster under the circumstances.  
  
"Oh, Harry," she murmured, "we're even now."  
  
"Nah," I replied, "it's just that I'm bent over. I'm at least a dozen centimeters taller than you."  
  
She grabbed my ears and pulled my lips forcibly to hers. I pushed her backward until her body was open and ready for me for me, spread deliciously on top of her cloak.  
  
I wanted to become an unspeakable so I could be one of the many things I was going to do to her body. I finally opted, like I did when she came in, for the easy opening, even though it was hard. I kissed the apex of her legs and once again she pulled me by my aural apparatuses to her lips Ð- the other ones, this time. My ears were starting to hurt. I mumbled to her that I wasn't an elf and groping my ears wasn't as much of a turn on as she seemed to imagine. I dove back between her thighs. The closer she came to a climax the more I wished for some gillyweed so I could breathe. I was finally forced to back off from Madam Hooch's worst student's coochie. I rose above her, prepared to enter her as a wizard enters a witch.  
  
She raised her arms to clutch at my back, urging me with the earthy pools of her eyes to take her as my own, to make her mine, to pound her senseless, to rocken-roll her world as the muggles say. How could I say no?  
  
I collapsed on top of her minutes later. I was certain that my cock wasn't the only bone that had gone soft; I wondered if I might need some Skele-Gro in order to stand up. Or roll over.  
  
Eventually the stupefaction wore off and we moved gingerly to separate and redress.  
  
Hermione was the first to speak. "You know Harry, I finally figured out why it's called the Room of Requirement. It's not because you require what's in the room, but what you require more often than what's in the room is the room itself!  
  
"Though I still don't understand why I feel like a virgin every time we do it in here," she trailed off, rubbing away the phantom ache in her pelvis. I decided not to tell her that it was just another part of the fantasy, and that the Room always gives you what you want if it can. You just had to be very, very specific.  
  
"Maybe it's just the fantasy affecting your mind that deeply," I said. "You know, getting into it and all." She didn't reply, but the expression on her face told me she'd taken my words at face value.  
  
She was starting to walk rather stiffly by the time we got back to our common room, but the grin plastered on her face was irrefutable proof that she'd enjoyed herself immensely, like a Dementor at a garden party.  
  
Case closed. 


End file.
